


Do you believe in miracles?

by AngstyLlamaCrossings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bestiality, M/M, Werewolf Derek, centaur stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 07:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21334315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstyLlamaCrossings/pseuds/AngstyLlamaCrossings
Summary: Stiles is a centaur, Derek is a werewolf.They'll make it work, somehow...Right?
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 2
Kudos: 142





	Do you believe in miracles?

**Author's Note:**

> uh, sorry not sorry?
> 
> there's some stuff about cutting food in here and also bestiality so you know, warnings and all that jazz
> 
> onward ho!

_I believe in miracles,_  
_Where you from? You sexy thing!_  
_I believe in miracles,_  
_Since you came along _  
_You sexy thing!_  
  
_\- _Hot Chocolate

—

Stiles doesn't believe in miracles.

That's the stuff of effigies, of six hour long sermons, of hoity-toity dinner affairs particularly reserved for the holier-than-thou reincarnations of lesser beings, made stupider by their own superiority - à la humans. He doesn't believe in fate and the universe either, or whatever mumbo jumbo the other centaurs believe in.

So when he’s kicked out from the herd, it’s more of his own lack of brain-to-mouth filter than an act of divine intervention, as the Chief Centaur had reminded. Repeatedly. That cankerous old prune.

Who wants to spend their life picking carrots for the rest of their life? Or gazing at the stars in a similarly vegetated state? What kind of career is that anyway?

They're a dying breed, too intent on keeping the old traditions and too content to sit on the sidelines and watch as the rest of the world moves on without them. Proud and stubborn, the whole lot of them. So he suggested a tractor so they wouldn't have to do everything by hand, he even repaired it on his own time, gave it a fresh coat of paint and named her Roscoe. And what does he gets for his efforts?

Kicked out of the tribe. Abandoned in the middle of nowhere like yesterday's dung heap. And they took Roscoe from him too, damn it all!

So he sets off on his own and ends up in a charming little village at the upper east side of Poseidon’s butthole, by the not-so-ironic name of Beacon Hills.

He swears it was just a pitstop, he never meant to stay for long. He needed a break from gallivanting through the forest and it had been days since he had anything substantial to eat other than dried grass and rainwater.

But see, there's this guy... and suddenly he's drawing long term contracts for a cabin in the woods, the faint chime of ceremonial bells in the distance and Franken were-horse babies that would put dragon donkeys to shame.

No, no, there’s no secret rendezvous in the woods. They don’t set out on a romantic tryst in the woods or have surprise picnics for no reason. But bad boys in leather jackets with something to prove have always been his great weakness. Or maybe he's been on the road for too long, can you blame him?

So he follows _The Guy_ around for a while and finds out, rather quickly, that the dude’s a werewolf. 

While this doesn't necessarily make things any easier, he can't help the pleasurable feeling in his gut. He’s no longer the only supernatural psycho abandoned in this neck of the woods.

Not anymore, at least.

—

Life is all about falling apart and fixing the pieces back together again.

Something about reinforced glass or other his sister had told him before. Like how a knife sharpens or how a master craftsman hones his creations by filling in the broken gaps with something new, something even stronger and therefore all the more beautiful.

_That's stupid_. He remembers saying, _if a plate breaks you buy a new one and throw away the old one. This isn't an episode of Hoarders, Laura._

She’d laughed at him, landing a solid punch on his shoulder, the way older sisters do. It hurt and he misses the pain like a man misses sleep in a snowstorm.

It’s beyond fixing.

He means the roof and the central heating system of his old house but also him, his mistakes, his _life_. It’ll never be the same again.

So when he loses himself to the wolf, it’s as natural as breathing.

* * *

He gets attacked by _The Guy_ at 3a.m. on a lovely Tuesday morning.

He lives in a hut at the furthest end of the Preserve. Nothing fancy mind you, just a painstakingly carved plot of land with his own vegetable garden, pumpkins, aubergines and the occasional potato.

He thinks no one would ever find him here, not with the sudden spike in supernatural activity, no one human at least. Lo and behold, his hiding spot doesn't stay in hiding for very long. A family of cockatrice moves in not three months since his vegetables were first planted.

Stiles was having none of that.

This is _his_ vegetable plot and those are _his_ vegetables and if anyone gets their grubby little fingers on his butternut squash, he'll chomp them off if he has to.

So he trudges out in fury, banging pots and pans in hopes of scaring them off. Instead, he finds the sorry bastards have already been taken care off, by someone else who did not look like he would be as easily intimidated by a pot, pan or any other cooking utensil.

He’s heard of werewolves before of course, met quite a few omegas seeking refuge in fact. He’s never seen an alpha though, especially not one upclose. He’s not scared if that's what you’re wondering, and it's definitely not because of fear that he back peddles, trips on his own hooves and lands with his flank on the ground.

He doesn't even register the fangs around his throat.

—

Someone’s been following him, he can smell it.

Derek had stopped by the lake to wash up that afternoon, tense muscles relaxing as the heavy grime and dirt melted away from his fingertips. He stays beneath the surface of the frigid water for a long time, idly wondering how long the human body can withstand oxygen deprivation before survival instincts kick in when a rustling in the bushes startles him.

He shifts back, growling low in his throat.

A shaved head pops out in the distance, body obscured from behind a clump of bushes so that it looked like a human skull was floating atop the water’s edge like a cheap Halloween decoration.

“You didn't see anything!” The floating head hollers before turning and disappearing back into the woods.

He’s… he’s… _What?_

Derek doesn't know what to think but he’s not fooled, this was bound to be a trap of some kind. Scout the lone wolf before springing a surprise attack, that had to be it. He has to take care of this problem once and for all before it takes care of him.

Good mood abandoned, he stalks over to the edge of the pool where the mysterious stranger had stood before taking in a deep whiff.

It smelled like Thanksgiving, like roast turkey, pumpkin pie and butternut squash casserole. It’s strangely familiar and yet entirely foreign. He knows what it smells like now, it smelled like prey.

He follows the scent and lays in wait just beyond the fenced up straw hut on the other side.

His stalker is a centaur, an adolescent by the looks of it. Based off what he knows about them, they usually travel in packs, are capable of stomping their victims to death and usually keep to themselves. This one hasn't though but after kanimas and darachs, he’s not about to take any chances. He remains on stakeout for another two days, just to be sure there’s no chance of backup before panning an attack under the cover of night.

Just as he’s about to sneak into the hut, a mob of giant chickens descend upon him.

Roaring, he tears them apart bit by bit, a chaotic whirlwind of dark blue feathers and shiny yellow talons. They were no doubt minions summoned by the centaur, they must be working together!

He’s almost done with the last one when the door opens with a loud bang.

The floating head appears, this time attached to a body holding a pot in one hand and a pan in the other. Between them was a solid torso with a splattering of hair that led all the way down to long chestnut hooves, a palomino flank and a viciously swishing tail that was tied up in a large braid.

He jumps, sinking his teeth into a shoulder before something hits him with the force of a truck and he propels to the ground.

Was he— Did he just— _Is that a frying pan?_

The injuries heal instantaneously and he’s ready to flip back up for a second swipe when he’s knocked back again. This time, the pain is excruciating, pressing down on his tender ribs, sucking the air from his windpipe.

He looks up at amber eyes and a toothy grin, the weight of an entire fucking horse-man on his shoulders, pinning him to the ground.

“So, uh... Tea?”  
  


—

Right, so romantic trysts and secret rendezvous in the woods?

Totally a thing now. So are breakfasts in bed and naked aprons, score one for the home team Stilinksi!

It started out innocently enough. A pleasant invite to tea at 3 a.m. in the morning, an admitted refusal from a snarling werewolf, a little whiff of aconite not-so-essential oil and suddenly all was right with the world.

He stitches himself up first, pressing a healing salve into the open wound and it closes quickly but not as quickly as the werewolf's natural abilities which is truly a remarkable sight to behold. The scratches and cuts, both shallow and deep disappear like shadows in the darkness. Perhaps he could find a way to isolate the regenerative gene and introduce it to his vegetables, HYV and GMF would have nothing on his supersized turnips.

Still, he wraps the wolf’s chest in bandages just to be sure. One of the ribs was definitely cracked, thanks to him. He lays the beast on his own bed, carved of oak and animal skin. Not very comfortable but it’s all he has.

The stench from the dead cockatrices outside is disconcerting so he buries them, leaving all but one. No life should ever be wasted, they would all become fodder for his dear vegetables and some day, he will too. With any luck the werewolf will wake up any moment now and murder him in his sleep, he'll be more than happy to join the dead for a late breakfast or early brunch. 

He cleans the meat of the smallest cockatrice and soaks the bird in a salt brine, awaiting the hungry werewolf that was sure to terrorise his bedtime schedule for the foreseeable future. Hopefully, this peace offering will be enough of a distraction for him to make a quick getaway.

With one final look around, he tucks the werewolf in and slumps to the floor on all four legs, resting his head at the edge of the bed for reprieve. Long deft fingers sink into thick black fur as he drifts off to sleep.

He dreams of carpets, both of the flying and non-flying variety. They're all incredibly soft and seem to wrap around his body at all the right angles, a sea of grey green blue that slides beneath his hooves like silk as he gallops through the darkness, a voice calling his name in the distance.

In the morning, he wakes to a clatter of pots and pans.

Drool sliding off his chin, he stares open-mouthed at the naked form of a man standing in the middle of his kitchen. Nothing but a dirty apron slung low over his waist that covered up… basically nothing. Oh, glorious nothing.

The werewo— man— uh wolf-man? Stares at him from across the room, lips drawn in a thin line.

Stiles realises he’s still salivating, from the smell of food or the remnants of sleep or because of something else entirely, his sleep-addled brain had yet to make up its mind. 

Then The Guy cocks an eyebrow and holds out a plate.

“So, uh... Bacon?”

* * *

  
They go from there.

It helps that Derek is a supernatural equivalent of a hobbo and somehow, Stiles had inadvertently put out a homestay ad in the daily news for otherworldly roommates because soon enough, new uh— _people_ start showing up at the door.

His favourite has to be Scott. They get along like peanut butter and chocolate, like curly fries and cherry cola, like Batman and Robin. In another life, he likes to think they could’ve been brothers. Then the rest of the ragtag team file in like clockwork, Lydia, Allison, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Jackson and two more names he’s heard of but hasn't seen. He meets Allison only once and the next time they gather and he asks where she is, the gang quietens and he doesn't ask again.

To be fair, they rarely come to him of their own accord and never without Derek in the immediate vicinity.

Some days, it’s like he can’t get rid of them no matter what he does. More often than not though, they disappear completely and he doesn't hear hair nor hide from them for weeks on end. The forest is quiet without them, too quiet.

They’re all in on something. Something big, like a war and even with his limited palm-reading juju, Stiles can sense it too. Something was wrong with the forest.

They don't ask him to participate though, which is just as well. Stiles hasn't killed anything bigger than a rabbit before and they probably don't have sport hunting in mind. He can't intervene even if he wants to anyway. Something about cosmic energies and running interference to the universe or whatever crap their ancestors had warned against. Predicting the future? Sure. Messing with it? Oh, no no no. 

It's one of the reasons he left, or you know got kicked out if you wanna be technical about it. What's the point of predicting the future when you can't change it? Especially the bad stuff! He'd rather not know at all, then to know and do nothing in fear of making things worse. Life is better off that way, more fun when you never know what could happen. So even if an asteroid hit the earth and they'll all die tomorrow, Stiles won't know and even if he did, he'd ignore it, embracing the burning hunk of rock like any other plebeian existence. 

So his supply of medicinal salves increases exponentially, so his research on the occult piles high, so he collects more mountain ash than any other herb in the house. 

Well, he's helping because he wants to help, not that he's being forced to. Therefore, none of it can come back to bite him in the ass, right?

Right.

Derek turns up at his door the most frequently. He doesn't have anything beyond a warm bed and watered down tea to offer but that seems to be more than enough for the wolf man.

Stiles talks a lot but doesn't actually say anything. Derek doesn't say anything, period.

It’s like they’re made for each other.

They’re still trying to figure out the sex thing. Stiles has to bottom because if he tops, Derek, both man and wolf, will spontaneously combust. It's a larger than life quandary, no doubt a speculative dilemma for generations to come but in the end they figure it out.

It’s all kinds of funky and very, very illegal so he has refrained from writing it down in this journal to spare you, dear reader, from all the gruesome details of their sexcapades. All you need to know however, is that it was awesome and 10/10 Stiles would do it again.

Over and over until the world ends, both figuratively and literally.

—

He’s out collecting herbs one day when a gunshot rings through the air.

Derek emerges from the clearing, a woman’s maniacal laughter ringing from behind him. More shots whizz through the air, the smell of wolfsbane and gunpowder was unmistakable.

Not thinking, he hauls Derek by the arms and gallops through the forest at breakneck speed. Hooves clopping on the ground, he doesn't stop until his lungs are seizing at the pressure and they're on the outskirts of town, nearly ramming into a wired fence.

Derek is barely holding onto his waist when he canters for a high jump over a fallen log. The werewolf lets go before passing out, sinking to the littered leaves of the forest floor. There’s a deep black gash on his upper arm, inky veins spreading like cobwebs reaching towards his heart, Stiles doesn't want to think about what will happen when it does.

He carries the lifeless body the rest of the way to the hut.

Aconite works the same way as snake poison, sometimes fire can only be fought with fire. He knows this, has read about it in his research. Dabbing a salve of aconite into the open wound, he watches with lingering fascination as the veins rescind back and disappear below the epidermis, leaving behind a smooth span of marble skin. He's one third relieved as fuck and two thirds angry as fuck.

When Derek wakes up, they fight.

Screaming matches, months of words unsaid burst forth like hot lava. About personal safety, about Derek throwing himself into danger without a plan or backup, about working together with the rest of the pack, about his involvement or Derek's insistence on his lack of involvement. Of they're differences (_We're not even the same species Derek!_) and idiosyncrasies (_I'm not a broken toy Stiles, stop trying to fix me!_), of their inability to get along with each other, of their inability to get along with anyone else.

And then they fuck.

At some point Derek attempts to shove him against the wall but he rears his hind legs and slams into a shelf of herbs and spices instead.

Handcrafted porcelain bowls smash onto the floor, powders and tea leaves of all colors wafting through the dying embers of the evening sun.

The wolf mounts him from behind, sinking its teeth into his back.

He falls to the floor on all floors, gasping for breath but not pulling away.

They barely pierce through his thick flank and he chants Derek’s name like a prayer, tucking his hind legs to keep them from kicking out against the sudden intrusion. The mess of fur behind him rocks forward, snarling and nipping as the slaps thrum into a erratic rhythm, growing more fervent with every plea and every apology.

He buckles down lower, to give himself up, to give permission, to give everything he has and ask for nothing in return.

A lolling tongue laps at the forgotten scrapes and tears on his body. He neighs in primal heat, throwing his head back to rub his rump against the floor despite himself. A searing white hot comet surges through him and he’s suddenly too full, too much and too big to fill his body all at once. He means to stand back up but slips on sweat and slick, falling deeper into a pit of his own pleasure.

Derek rocks, once, twice and shudders before collapsing ontop of him.

They lay there, under the pale milky light and concentrate on getting their breath back, light kisses and wet licks, non-verbal displays of affection, of forgiveness, of reassurance and of silent promises to do better, to be better. To always be together.

By the time they’ve recovered, the moon was high in the sky, casting long shadows into the hut, into their lives .

He turns to admire his lover, the thick eyebrows that tells no lies, the upturned mouth that speaks no truth and the grey green blue eyes that belied the sadness in their depths.

_I nearly lost you._

He says instead, “You know, you rode me twice today.”

Derek nips him on the butt with human teeth and he laughs.

* * *

Some months after Erica and Boyd’s deaths, Derek turns up on his doorstep with sunken eyes.

He looks even worse than the first time he'd seen the werewolf and he hastens to usher him inside the warm hut.

“I can’t stay.”

Derek says, after they’ve been quietly sipping a cup of freshly brewed peppermint tea for the last half hour. The tea was cold by now, a liquid chill that he swallows willingly, though it freezes his bones and leaves a bitter acrid taste on his tongue.

“Where will you go?”

It's a simple question but Derek seems to hesitate. Stiles wonders if the werewolf would've left without telling him anything at all.

“Mexico.”

_Can I come with you?_ He’s afraid of the answer so he doesn't ask.

“When will you be back? What about Scott? And the rest of the pack?”

_What about me?_

Derek doesn't answer and Stiles doesn't push. It seemed that despite his best efforts, things have only spiralled out of control in Beacon Hills, had been for a long time now. Perhaps this separation was for the best, if it kept Derek away from all this madness, to keep him safe so he may live through the apocalypse, though that would require a miracle.

Stiles doesn't believe in miracles.

They don't exist, not for him and not for anybody. It’s nothing personal really, just that in the grand scheme of things, the universe seriously doesn't give a fuck.

So no, he doesn't believe in miracles but he believes in Derek. He believes in what they have and he believes they’ll find their way back to each other, someday someway somehow, the universe be damned.

When Derek leaves through the door, Stiles holds onto him and doesn't let go. He stares into the choppy sea of grey green blue and though their murky depths had once given him solace, now they threatened to drown him, to smother him in anguish, longing for a death that would be sweeter than living without it's tight embrace to blanket his dreams, chase away his nightmares. 

"No goodbye kiss?" He asks, ashamed of the tremble in his voice, afraid of sounding like a petulant child.

Derek smiles, eyes crinkling.

"This isn't goodbye, Stiles." But he leans in to place a solid pecks on his lips anyway, the terrible liar.

He watches from the little window as Derek walks down the garden path, passing the fence and disappearing into the darkness.

For the first time since he’s left the herd, Stiles looks up at the stars and prays and prays.

—

Two years later, he’s running from a group of rogue hunters when a beast darts through the forest floor, tearing their necks open as blood gushed out from severed limbs.

It’s a gruesome scene, four stars on the gore factor, enough to make Tarantino proud. But all he does is laugh and laugh.

The big black wolf trots over to him, lolling tongue licking daintily at his matted fur and paws, a vivid contrast to the brutal violence from earlier. But hey, those bastard got what was coming to them. They destroyed his vegetable plot for god's sake!

In one fluid motion, Derek shifts and he lifts the werewolf by the arms, kissing through blood soaked rain, through flesh bitten teeth, through infinite cosmos and unexplored galaxies way beyond their earthly understanding. 

“Stiles, Stiles Stiles.” Derek chants his name like a prayer, begging with soft lips, a string of unadulterated reverence, a lifetime of absolute worship and devotion.

In response, he laughs louder.

He laughs, so hard and for so long that tears streak down his face, that his mouth breaks into a grimace of anger and sorrow and utter _relief_.

He’s still laughing as Derek climbs onto his back and together they gallop deep into the forest, back to the ruined little hut and the trampled garden plot where pumpkins and butternut squash grow year round.

Back to their home, where love only grows stronger as it breaks apart.

Miracles, indeed.

* * *

_The End_


End file.
